


State of Being

by Euhines



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Healthy Relationships, Just Green Guys Being Dudes, M/M, Oneshot, Rare Pairings, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 21:08:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7949239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euhines/pseuds/Euhines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re in a relationship appropriately summarized by two green silhouettes very much in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	State of Being

On Tuesday mornings, the Cathedral of St. Mary the Crowned is empty. The pastor stands at his podium silently addressing a crowd of apparitions and shadows left behind since Sunday. He never speaks, posture rigid as the two dots upon his forehead glow, head tilted down towards the bible at his metal fingertips. To Lúcio, he is singing.

A damp earth smell slips through the cracks of the wooden doors, sticking to the stained glass and the strands of Lúcio’s hair. Thunder is loud and insistent in the quiet air. Autumn rain pitter patters against well-kept stone, painting wet streaks on old history like a blind artist who is unsure whether his canvas is truly blank. There are four seasons in Gibraltar, and this is his favorite.

Lúcio doesn’t consider himself to be a devout man. Recent years and struggles had religion slipping through the space between his fingers but never fully dissipating. He had stumbled upon the cathedral after accidentally separating from McCree on a nightly stroll. The moonlight and streetlamps covered it in an ethereal light that left him speechless, vulnerable even. He entered through the doors without much thought; he heard his breath echo across walls, his heartbeat felt faint.

He visits the cathedral once a week, usually on a Tuesday, politely greeting the pastor before sitting on a bench closest to the door in silence for an hour. He never prays, perhaps bows his head once or twice. Instead of a bible in his hand, he has a book of pressed flowers. Each time he visits, the book gets thicker, overflowing with petals on each page.

Today his book is complete; Genji gave him a gazania to complete the collection after a recent trip to Overwatch’s abandoned watchpoint in South Africa. He had returned last night, visor lifted with the brightest smile on his face and the gazania delicately held with two fingers.

 _Proud,_ Lúcio thinks with a smile, _he was proud of himself._

They pressed the final flower together, fingers grazing in silent declarations of “I love you,” and “you feel like home,” and “I want to kiss you.” They sighed in satisfaction, shoulders bumping as they flicked quickly through each page to make sure nothing was left blank.

Genji had rested his forehead against his, giving Lúcio’s nose a small peck before running off to show the completed creation to Hanzo—something he always did as a child, a habit he had trouble breaking. The poor man almost had his tea knocked over by Genji’s enthusiasm, disgruntled as Ana snorted over her own cup in amusement. Hanzo regrets joining Overwatch at least more than five times on a Monday.

Pressing flowers became a tradition they developed at the beginning of their relationship. It had been something Lúcio initially started on his own, only managing to pick flowers while simultaneously trying to keep his teammates alive. A daisy on the fourth page is covered in gunpowder thanks to McCree. Hanzo even nearly shot off one of his fingers with an arrow after Lúcio almost grabbed a poisonous plant by accident.

That incident formed a rather strange friendship.

He had lost the book once in Gibraltar, leaving it on a cliff where he enjoyed watching the sunset. Genji found it an hour later as Lúcio went through the stages of grief in his room. He kept the book, intrigued by the pressed flowers, until Lúcio revealed it belonged to him several days after. Lúcio’s knowledge of flowers and their meanings had impressed Genji, the cyborg constantly asking him questions whenever they were assigned together. It resulted in late nights where the two ended up tangled within each other’s arms, a floral dictionary at their feet. Awkward mornings defined their early romance well.

Lúcio groans softly as he hides his face in the aging brown cover; his fingers dig into the spine, waiting for all the embarrassing memories to stop drowning him at once.

“You’ll break the book if you keep doing that.” Genji’s voice comes in a comforting hum from behind him; it’s a mist of affectionate words drifting through a mechanical filter. His fingers brush against the back of Lúcio’s neck. He’s probably smiling.

The pastor raising his head from the bible, staring at the two in curiosity, goes unnoticed.

“It’s been through worse,” Lúcio reminds him, removing the book from his face and leaning back to tilt his head up. He decides to not question how Genji entered the cathedral without a sound. A ninja thing. “Remember the time you almost dropped it in the Shinano River?”

“A tactical error.” Genji lifts the latches holding his visor in place. A blush softly coats his scarred cheeks.

Lúcio clearly remembers Genji being more preoccupied with his lips on Lúcio’s neck.

He snorts and Genji hushes him before pressing a kiss to his forehead. Genji moves to sit beside him, crossing his legs as they interlock fingers above his lap. A green umbrella is at his feet forming a small puddle. He pays no mind to the pastor as Lúcio rests his head against his shoulder. They sit there in silence. Scattered thunder fills in the emptiness.

The best way to spend their morning.

Lúcio licks his lips, his gaze dipping into the cathedral’s altar, eyes soaking in the statue of Our Lady of Europe. The candles to her front are unlit yet she still glows. He blinks and the cathedral morphs into Hanamura, candlesticks growing into cherry blossom trees. Genji is in front of him; his lips are moving but never utter a sound. He’s wearing the orange scarf Lúcio got him as a joke. It feels natural to smile as Genji gestures vaguely and points to an unknown direction.

 _Date,_ Lúcio remembers, _this is our third date._

The first date is a disaster; dinner is burned, takeout ordered instead. The second is an improvement. A nervous kiss on a cliff, Genji almost falls off the side of Gibraltar. The clumsiest ninja he’d ever seen. The third is on the border of dream and reality, much like one of the old romance movies Lúcio gushes over. There was no candle lit dinner or long walks on the beach, but it was better. Genji’s company was enough as they walked through Hanamura, enjoying early Spring. Lúcio couldn’t recall a time he laughed as hard as he did then; he even doubled over, slapping his knees. A little loud, a little contagious.

Lúcio rubs his eyes, and he’s back within the cathedral. Genji traces constellations on the back of his hand. The thunder stops.

He swears the pastor is humming.

More memories fade in and out. Lúcio feels like he’s rummaging through an old box in the attic, plucking out the valuables, dusting off the nostalgia. McCree appears in some of them, white smoke rises from the ends of his lips, diffusing through streaks of sunlight and the brim of his hat. Lena pops in time to time, shaking a camera in her hands, wide grin on her face.

He remembers the way Genji’s fingers had danced expertly up his thighs, so naturally, during a debriefing in the meeting room months ago. Almost like that was the purpose of its existence. There’s images full of glowing affection, barely there blushes and unspoken anxieties. There’s hand holding, soft kisses, love ascending and fumbling against knuckles and wrists. Stolen breaths under rumpled sheets.

Lúcio refrains from sinking into his seat. _You’re in a church, Lúci. Behave._

Genji spares him a confused glance but says nothing.    

They leave within an hour once the rain stops. The Omnic waves goodbye to the two, head tilted as if he wishes to smile. Gray smothers the city past the wooden doors, clouds lingering, refusing to let the Sun push through. Lúcio breathes in the scattered puddles and broken umbrellas laid to rest in garbage cans. Their fingers are still interlocked as they make their way back to the Watchpoint, almost like they refuse to ever let go.

Genji whistles a quiet tune from behind his visor as they scurry over wet pavement. Lúcio’s lips curve upwards when he recognizes it’s a melody from one of his latest unfinished songs. Something he has been working on since the completion of his world tour almost a year ago. Genji spends more time in his room than his own, enjoying the way Lúcio’s fingers strum a guitar or glide across a launchpad. The two fall in love more and more each day, finding a new detail that makes their heart flutter. Cheesy, as McCree would say, perhaps. However, they don’t mind, never will. There is no reason to be ashamed.

“Anything planned for our anniversary, Strike-Commander?” Genji murmurs as he bows his head to reach Lúcio’s ear. “I would not mind staying in bed all day.”

Lúcio flushes, nudging Genji with his elbow as he bashfully laughs. “Come on, man. You know that ain’t official.”

“It suits you.” Genji softly presses his visor against the side of Lúcio’s face before pulling away. “You are a natural born leader.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere.” He shakes his head and side steps a puddle.

They share a smile—well, one of them is surely smiling, one can only guess with Genji—during which Lúcio presses his lips against Genji’s fingers, grazing easily over the sleek metal. Genji’s green glow is almost too bright, but he seems to beam behind his visor as he pulls Lúcio close, the warmth seeping through the ventilation of his body. They fit perfectly, almost a little too well.

Days come and go, but their bond remains constant. Between the hours and the seconds, everything ends too easily, but they hold it together with a string of hope. Two green silhouettes as the only splash of color within the dreary fog. Some call them soul mates but in reality, they’re just _being._

Nothing more, nothing less.

**Author's Note:**

> this oneshot was fueled by bitterness lmao


End file.
